If the 1970s were a fever dream of sleaze, nihilism, and questionable moral fiber, then *Delirium* (1979) is the unholy vision you see when the fever spikes. A grimy, low-budget mix of psychological horror and grimy crime thriller, this forgotten obscurity plays like *Maniac* (1980) got locked in a room with *Death Wish* and a stack of cheap beer.
The plot—if you can call it that—follows a Vietnam vet-turned-cop who’s investigating a series of brutal murders. But this ain’t your standard procedural. No, *Delirium* is stitched together from jittery handheld shots, feverish monologues, and enough sweaty close-ups to make you feel like you’re trapped inside the killer’s head. The whole thing pulses with a cheap, hallucinatory energy, like a late-night cable broadcast that somehow slipped through the cracks of reality.
The real star here is the movie’s sleazy, nightmarish atmosphere. The lighting is harsh, the soundtrack is a synth-driven migraine, and the whole film reeks of unwashed polyester and cigarette ash. The violence is nasty, the dialogue is delivered with the enthusiasm of a hostage reading a ransom note, and yet—you can’t look away.
It’s ugly. It’s relentless. It makes you feel like you need a shower. And that’s exactly why it rules.
**Final Verdict:** ★★★★☆
A greasy, unhinged relic from the golden age of grindhouse. If you like your horror raw and dripping with existential dread, *Delirium* delivers.
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